


Idioteque

by thedeadparrot



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Multi, Pegging, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-19
Updated: 2010-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from the <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/3114.html?thread=8346922#t8346922">kink meme prompt</a>: Sherlock hires a prostitute to sleep with John (who doesn't know what her job is), who after the act comes to Sherlock and does to him what John did to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idioteque

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://zulu.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**zulu**](http://zulu.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta.

Though Sherlock prefers to be in motion, he is capable of being very, very still.

In times like these, while he is waiting for a result, he likes to tent his hands and close his eyes so that he doesn't run himself ragged with anticipation. Mycroft taught him this trick, back when Sherlock would scamper around the house, unable to quiet his mind or his feet. He supposes that there is some room for error in his calculations, and as such, he must be patient.

The knock on the door comes three-point-four minutes later than Sherlock expected, and it takes a supreme force of will for him not to jump out of his seat. "Come in," he shouts, not trusting himself to stand up.

The prostitute (her name long since deleted from the hard drive) opens the door and steps inside, her shoes making heavy thunking noises on the hardwood floor. She's cleaned up, as instructed, scrubbing her face clean of makeup and tying back her hair. She's even changed into jeans and a soft jumper, not one of John's, but one that suggests him all the same. There isn't a strong resemblance outside of that -- her face is too narrow and angular, for one, and her hair is too dark -- but Sherlock selected for intelligence first and foremost. Looks were very much a secondary consideration.

"Where are we doing this?" she asks, all business. Sherlock liked that about her when he first interviewed her, that she was, for the most part, brusque and straightforward and sharp.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock says. "What did he do when you first entered the room?"

She smirks at that, smug, as if she could understand how Sherlock's mind works. As if she could understand what he wants from this. "He kissed me in the doorway," she says, beckoning to Sherlock with one hand. There's a lazy sway to her hips, practiced, and that's wrong, that's not like John at all.

"Stop that," Sherlock snaps. "You don't have to seduce me." He stands up and walks to the door.

Her smirk gets wider. "John did," she says, a bit of singsong to her voice. "I thought that was what you wanted?"

With her heels, she's taller than John -- Sherlock made sure of that -- so it makes sense that John would have leaned up to kiss her, just as she's leaning up to kiss Sherlock now. Her lips are too full to be John's, but Sherlock closes his eyes and lets himself experience the moment, imagining what it was like, yesterday, when Sherlock had arranged for this particular experiment to take place.

"He was a very good kisser, you know," she says after she pulls back. "Better than you." She thinks that this is a competition between John and himself, that Sherlock is doing this out of misplaced jealousy of John's skills with women. Sherlock does not want to waste his time by disabusing her of this notion.

"What next?" Sherlock asks.

"Um, do you want to come upstairs?" She blinks, tilting her head to one side, doing a passable imitation of John's accent. Sherlock lets himself mentally overlay John's body over hers, lets himself imagine that John is asking _him_ , and he feels the air rush out of his lungs, making it harder for him to breathe.

"Yes," Sherlock says.

She smiles at him, lopsided and affectionate, and Sherlock does have to admit that she is a very good actor. She leads him up the stairs, though Sherlock knows the way better than she ever could. "Excuse the mess," she says with John's apologetic eyes. "My flatmate is not the neatest bloke around."

Sherlock nods, cataloging. The anticipation that he was attempting to keep in check earlier is beginning to bubble up to the surface. But he can't get ahead of himself. He needs to let the situation play out. Once they get inside John's room, she kisses him again, her hands warm and gentle against Sherlock's neck. _This is how they kissed,_ Sherlock thinks. _Right here, like this._ The thought sends shivers down his spine, though he knows the details are mostly wrong, imperfect, imprecise.

"He helped me out of my clothes right about now," she says, reverting back to herself, her eyelids half closed. "He was very gentlemanly about it all."

She pulls her jumper over her head as Sherlock undoes the buttons of his shirt, a smirk still lingering on her mouth. If it were really John here, Sherlock would be touching him, sliding his hands underneath John's shirt, pressing his lips against John's belly. Sherlock isn't sure if he'd want to take his time, draw it out, or if he'd be frantic and desperate and needy. This is an imperfect means of testing either hypothesis.

Once they've both gotten their clothes off, she kisses Sherlock again, long and drawn out, her tongue sliding against Sherlock's lips. Her hands trace Sherlock's shoulders, his arms, coming to rest on his hips while she nibbles on the line of Sherlock's jaw, the column of Sherlock's neck. Then she hooks a leg behind Sherlock's knee, throwing him off balance so that she can push him backwards. Sherlock goes along with it, falling back onto John's bed. John has just changed the sheets, so they don't smell like him, but the pillows do, like John's shampoo and John's sweat and John's skin. Sherlock takes a moment to breathe it in.

She straddles his waist after she's pulled on the harness, the pale pink dildo protruding obscenely from from between her legs. "He liked playing with my breasts," she says as she leans over, her face hovering over Sherlock's chest, her breath warm and teasing on Sherlock's skin. She bites down on Sherlock's left nipple while squeezing the right between two fingers. Her nails are too long, too sharp, another imperfection in the illusion, but Sherlock is hardening still. He can imagine it, the thoughtful, focused look on John's face as he did this, the same way he looks over dead bodies when Sherlock wants a second opinion on the coroner's reports.

She works her way down from there, leaving kisses against Sherlock's ribs, his abs, even dipping her tongue into his navel. Sherlock winces, because he's ticklish there, an annoying physical reaction he can't control.

"He went down on me," she says, her voice soft, breathy. "He took his time with it. Some blokes, even the ones who aren't paying, they try to get it over with as quick as possible." She's between Sherlock's thighs, now, pushing his knees apart with her shoulders. "By the end of it, I was begging him to let me come."

Sherlock snorts, even as he imagines John Watson sucking cock. On his knees, perhaps, his head in Sherlock's lap. Would he put that same amount of effort into bringing Sherlock right there, right up to the edge of orgasm? Sherlock bites his cheek so that he can stifle his moan. "Were you doing that for effect or because you genuinely felt that way?" he asks. It would not do for Sherlock to forget exactly what sort of transaction was taking place here.

She laughs. "Can't it be both? He really was _very_ enthusiastic." Obviously, Sherlock does not possess the correct anatomy for her to do a perfect mimicry of the act, and before he can give her direction, she presses her tongue against the tight pucker of Sherlock's ass. Sherlock shivers. Like many things, Sherlock knows how this works in theory, but it's not the same as experiencing such things for oneself.

She slides her tongue along the muscle, and Sherlock had not realized that there were so very many nerve endings in that part of his body. He almost wants to jerk away from the sensation, the intensity of it. She moves slowly, almost languidly, giving him time to adjust to the sensation, which Sherlock appreciates right up until the point it's not enough. He can feel his body winding up, preparing for an orgasm, his cock already dripping white pre-come onto his skin. "What next?" he grits out, because he's unwilling to beg the way _she_ did. It's only just sunk in, that she's the one who got to touch John, to taste him, to come apart in his mouth. All Sherlock has is an echo, a pale reflection of the real thing.

"And then he shagged me silly," she says after she's pulled back, licking her lips. "You ready for this?"

Sherlock sneers. "This is what I'm paying you for, correct?" It's hardly a competition between the two of them -- Sherlock has already lost, after all -- but he can feel his hackles being raised all the same.

"Of course," she says. She's slicking her fake cock with lube, and her long, narrow fingers are nothing like John's shorter, squarer ones. Sherlock's own cock still jerks at the sight of it, his body tensing in anticipation. "You're going to want to relax for this," she says as she lines their hips up, wrapping Sherlock's legs around her waist.

Sherlock forces his traitorous body to do as she instructed, and at the first press of the dildo into his body, he lets his eyes close. The first thrust is the worst, because Sherlock is fully aware that it's not a human cock sliding into him. It is not warm enough, does not have precisely the same textural qualities, though it is a reasonable approximation. It's not anything like what John would be, hot and thick and _perfect_.

Then she finds a slow, steady rhythm, and Sherlock can lose himself in the feeling of being thoroughly fucked. She kisses him, her tongue teasing Sherlock's mouth open. "He liked kissing," she breathes against Sherlock's cheeks, and he can see her expression in his mind's eye. He can imagine John kissing and kissing and kissing, his lips as hungry for contact as his cock, and Sherlock hasn't wanted anything so badly since he saw his first crime scene.

Her hips pick up speed, the thrusts coming harder and faster, until Sherlock's mind is too far gone to stop himself from believing that it's John's fingers on hips, John's cock in his body, John's breath against his skin. That's all Sherlock needs, and he comes over his own stomach, sticky and wet. He's still gasping for breath as she withdraws, the sound of the dildo pulling free loud and filthy now that Sherlock can only dimly hear the rush of blood in his ears. His eyes are still closed.

She doesn't bother to hide the noises she makes as she gets dressed. Sherlock waits until she's pulling on her jumper until he says, "Money's on the kitchen counter." He doesn't want to look at her, doesn't want the moment to end, even though it already has.

"Cheers," she says, and he can hear her shut the door behind her, her footsteps heavy on the stairs as she heads down. Sherlock absently grabs one of the tissues from the box John keeps by his bedside and cleans the semen off his skin. Sex is usually too much of a hassle for Sherlock to bother, but he does enjoy this, the languid afterglow afterwards, the relaxation that spreads to every part of his body.

Sherlock knows that he should get up, get dressed, and rearrange the bed so that it looks like he was never here, but he can't seem to be bothered. An hour later, he hears the front door open downstairs, John's familiar tread on the stairs up to his bedroom. "Sherlock," John yells. "Sherlock, where the hell are you?"

For a moment, Sherlock considers keeping silent, letting John walk in on him naked and still sprawled across John's bed. How would John's face look, when he saw? Surprise mixed with confusion, maybe? Sherlock can even hope for the tiniest bit of arousal. But that would lead to questions, and Sherlock did not feel like explaining himself just yet. "In here," he calls back.

He can hear John's hand on the door handle, rattling it lightly. Every muscle in Sherlock's body is tensed. He can barely let himself breathe. "What the hell--" John says, his voice still muffled and distant. "You know what, I don't want to know. Just have it cleaned up by tomorrow night, all right? I'll take your room."

John's footsteps recede once again, and Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding. His chest still feels too tight, though, and body still aches, and even with all this new information, all this new data to process, he feels as though he hasn't made any progress at all.

Tomorrow. He will deal with it tomorrow. For now, he pulls John's sheets over his body and buries his nose into John's pillow and lets himself drift off into sleep.

 

FIN.


End file.
